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I wasn’t always this way. Read on.
Summer 2005. I’ve been holed up in my room for the better part of a month, reading, listening to, devouring material on the Game. Almost none of it makes sense to me, but I keep reading.
There must be something to it, because so many guys are doing it. It’s a shadow world. A real-life “Fight Club.”
My friend initiated me after I got back from a trip abroad where I had gotten laid three times in rapid succession. They were all fool’s mate, in hindsight, and the cultural/language barrier definitely helped. But having slept with only one woman prior to that, and having gone throughout college with not a single girlfriend to speak of, this new way of living is a revelation to me. Everything I know is wrong.
I go to a few lair meetings. Some seminars. I meet the man who’d become Vin DiCarlo, pre-goatee.
I find a wing at one of these events – a Chinese guy in the game for utilitarian purposes: He wants a wife and a green card. Fast.
He brings me out one night. I’m anxious as all hell. I love going to clubs to ogle women, but I secretly hate them for the paralysis they cast over me. I don’t know how to approach women there, let alone talk to them. I’m usually stuck hiding in a corner, with a drink if I’m lucky, and watching the women and the world go by over and over and over again, as if in a zoopraxiscope.
He’s high-fiving and saying hi to ladies as soon as we step into the club. I’m mortified. Who is this guy, thinking he’s good enough to approach any beautiful woman without prostrating himself before her and offering to buy up the whole bar for her? I slink away, five feet back. I’m less than his shadow.
He seems to like UGs. Or he’s comfortable around them. Whatever the case, we’re talking to a whole bunch of them. And it sucks. These aren’t even the bottom-feeders, they’re the bottom-fed. To a woman, they’re short, fat, bespectacled, acne-ridden, brace-faced, horse-faced, mouse-faced, big-eared or otherwise misshapen.
I’m a fine conversationalist, always have been. But I can’t get sexual, not even around these under-bridge dwellers. They think I’m undesirable – the irony.
Pretty soon, my wing is fed up. I’m doing nothing but following and supplying him with a short sword in battle.
“My energy is going down! I’m going to do something on my own!” he says, before storming off. I’m alone.
The club enlarges around me. It’s a panopticon. Everyone’s looking. But no one cares. If I had a drink I’d be squeezing it until it broke, but instead I’m left with my hands in my pockets, dredging them for lint.
Over the sounds of the club, a murmur in my head is growing into a roar. It’s talking to me. My conscience? My inner monologue? God? An angel?
“If something’s gonna happen, it’s got to happen NOW,” I hear it say. My body is so exploding with repressed energy that my skin feels tight. My temples pound.
Then, a bump from behind. A delivery from the universe.
I turn to see a tall, shapely, bountiful woman with a pure, adorable face. Her smile is wider than I thought possible on a human.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” she says, alternately covering her mouth and raising her arms and shoulders defensively. Her short friends, who are all at least a head below her, file past her, as if to get hit on by other dudes. Yeah, right. They’re dwarves.
“LOCK IN,” the voice inside me says. I do as commanded, taking her by the wrists.
I don’t know how I’m doing this. I don’t have the power to do these kinds of things. But as I continue to grasp her, I almost feel my shoulders expand.
“Is this what you do, bumping into guys to get them to talk to you?” I say, incredulously and forcefully.
“I thought you were my friend!” she lies.
“So your friend is a tall, handsome Korean man?” I say before I realize what I’ve said. Speaking in tongues. I’m not making sense to myself. I’ve never described myself as handsome, and I haven’t thought as much. I’m that tall, gangly, underfed kid whose voice broke before everyone else’s, the unlikely frog baritone. I’m the one with the galaxy of pimples traversing his temples to his chin. I’m not handsome. I’m not one of the chosen.
But she believes it. To her, I’m the most handsome man in the world. My charisma, my charm have transcended anything she knows. I’m the man she’s been looking for.
She’s apologizing – “sorry, sorry, sorry.” But it’s too much. I can tell from the way she’s standing, from her overuse of the words, that she’s embarrassed. She wants to stay, but she wants to go. I don’t give her a choice.
“Well, there’s only one way to pay me back!” I say, then drop one of her wrists, spin, and storm off to the dance floor like a kid on a tantrum.
She follows. In fact, she’s joined to me. Not just by the arm. She’s part of the energy traveling down my arm, her heartbeat has synced with mine.
We dance. I can cry now. I haven’t been to a dance since high school. I’ve rarely felt a woman’s body this closely in my life. I’ve looked for it, I’ve begged for it, but it’s never come to me.
When the energy dies down, when we’re in the afterglow, I parade her around the club by the hand. I’m euphoric. I can’t believe my good fortune. And I can’t believe how powerful I feel.
Later, outside. She’s with her friends. They smoke. She’s in front of me, hands behind her back. Head tilted down, peering at me from under her brow.
“Are you leaving now?” she asks, pleadingly. I take her by the waist and draw her close to me. That’s my answer.
“You’re really friendly, and you’re really fun. I’d like to see you again.”
This isn’t me. This is some guy who’s taller than me, more muscled than me, who’s got better clothes and a sports car parked outside.
We separate after the number-close. Or e-mail close, actually. (I was an amateur in those days, what can I say.)
The date doesn’t work out, and I pine over her for weeks, maybe months. But that night, I sleep well.
Last edited by Night Job on 11 Jan 2008, 14:20, edited 1 time in total.
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